Jungle Fever
by Michelle
Summary: Clint hates the jungle


**Jungle Fever**

_The title on this one is especially for thisislibberation, who plied me with drinks, helped me wrap up some plot points (and gave me some GREAT porny plot bunnies, too!), and then inspired me to call this little smut!fic something utterly ridiculous. _

_I 3 you, dude._

_The story here was inspired by an anon!prompt over on tumblr (I'm sidhera there, if you're interested!) - thank you, anon!  
_

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Clint hates the fucking jungle.

It's always raining, there are too many bugs, and dammit, if he spends one more day without a dry pair of socks, he's scraping the damn mission, and Fury can find someone else to carry out this bullshit assignment. Then he and Natasha are going home for at least a week of downtime, and they are not going to be redeployed, thank you, but actually go home, to New York, where the pizza and the vodka and the dry socks live.

Dammit.

Of course, he's not going to do anything of the kind. He respects Fury far too much, and if the man thinks that he needs the two of them down here in the lowest cesspit of hell, there must be a good reason for it.

Even if that reason escapes him at the moment.

So he sits in his tree 300 yards outside of the little guerilla camp that he somehow ended up watching even though it was Natasha's turn, and he pretends that the water dripping onto his neck from the leaves isn't bugging the shit out of him.

He adjusts his spotting scope, flicking a bug off the lens. Because sweet baby Jesus, he never needed to see anything with that many legs close up ever again.

Clint peers up at the sky, annoyed. He's going to have to whip out the infrared sooner than he thought tonight; the cloud cover, coupled with the tree canopy is already making it difficult to see.

Not that there's anything to see, of course. Just a bunch of Colombians playing cards and drinking aguardiente straight from the bottle. Occasionally, when he's lucky, one of them gets up to take a piss, and then he's got two groups of Colombians to watch.

The excitement never ends.

He bets they aren't even part of the drug trade. Trust his luck to end up catching surveillance duty on the world's only group of forty-something, camo-wearing, heavy drinking Colombian backpackers.

His earpiece buzzes to life.

"Hawkeye, this is Widow. Do you read?"

"Roger that, Widow , this is Hawk." He's whispering, but know that the tech is good enough to pick his voice up. Even though he's a good distance away from the encampment, it never hurts to be careful. "Read you loud and clear. Please tell me there's a shower in my near future."

Please, oh please, oh please . . .

He hears her throaty chuckle rasp over the comms.

"Sorry, no such luck. But I am sending a reprieve. Wolfhound is on his way to relieve you. ETA five minutes."

Wolfhound isn't actually a person, but rather a nifty piece of equipment given to them by Fury before he sent them on this bogus mission. Basically, they can set Wolfhound up, turn on a video monitor, and then they can watch the Colombians from the comfort of base camp.

Well, comfortable in comparison to having a tree limb halfway up his ass for hours on end.

Of course, because he's Clint and that's just how his luck has been running these days, the camera was damaged during their aerial insertion, which is why he is currently sitting in said tree in the middle of the damn jungle with wet socks and running face paint.

Oh, he can't wait for Wolfhound to get here.

He hears a clicking noise, but it's not coming from his earbud, but from somewhere below him. It speaks to Natasha's abilities that he doesn't even register her presence until she's halfway up the tree.

She gives a little wave and smile when she reaches his height and jerks her head, motioning toward her backpack. As quietly as possible, he helps her into his perch, and she settles herself firmly in front of him on the branch.

They work silently and efficiently as they set up the equipment, well familiar with each other's movements from their long association. They're so caught up in their work, who even notices how delightful Natasha looks in the slightly damp shirt she's wearing or the way little beads of sweat are working their way down the back of her neck?

Oh, that's right, he does. Because he's been in a fucking tree all damn day looking at a bunch of ever-drunker bearded guys have way more fun than he's had in weeks.

Other parts of his anatomy have started to notice Natasha as well, including the slowly stiffening part of him that is going to be pressed into her firm backside if they don't get out of this tree in about three seconds.

Aaaaaand, there we go.

He waits for Natasha to turn around, give him that patented disapproving eyebrow arch of hers, then ignore him for the rest of the evening while she sharpens her knives.

Instead, she does the complete reverse, twisting her head around so their eyes meet, and even though he does get the eyebrow, it's accompanied with a mischievous smirk and a slight wiggle of her hips.

That is just . . . awesome.

He's starting to feel more turned on by this situation than he rightfully should; if it turns out the campers really are drug lords, it wouldn't do to be caught setting up surveillance equipment with their pants literally down.

Ah, screw it. Gotta live a little, right?

So instead of being smart, he wraps his arm around her and pulls her flush against him. She wiggles again, enticingly pressing backward against him, encouraging him to keep going.

Clint doesn't bother to restrain the grin that crosses his lips. Nor does he bother to stop his gloved hand from sliding down Natasha's waist, holding his palm firmly against her center. The air in her lungs expelled with a huff, she leans back against him, head lolling on his shoulder and suddenly he has the most tantalizing view down her shirt.

And, of course, because it was almost like he was going to have some good luck on this trip rather than the other kind and that shit just doesn't happen to him, it starts to rain.

Again.

They both sigh, breaking apart, and after making sure Wolfhound is functioning properly, they climb down from the tree and head back toward camp. It's a slog, but at least the rainfall is spare enough that the canopy is more or less keeping them dry.

He should know better than to even entertain such thoughts because Nature takes that as her cue to really let loose, thunder clouds rolling in and drenching the spies.

They're far enough away from the Colombian encampment by now that Clint curses aloud, colorfully and repeatedly.

"Wow, Barton, you're going to make me blush." Natasha responds with a glint of humor, then leaps over a forming puddle.

He snorts, then tries to follow her.

"You don't blush, Nat."

He misses the other end of the puddle by several inches, and if his socks were damp before, they're soaked now. He swears his toes are going to rot off on this trip.

Natasha, because she's not that sadistic, no matter what the rookie agents say, looks back at him and frowns. He's sure his foul mood is writ large all over his face.

"You okay?"

He continues trudging, moving past her now. "I'm fucking great." He doesn't add the bit about how freaking terrific it is to get cock blocked by a thunderstorm.

She knows him well enough by now to know better, and she takes a few quick steps to catch up to him, then threads her arm through his. She leans closer to him, about to say something, when they both hear a loud crack coming from their right flank.

Wordlessly, they take cover together behind a large tree and wait for whatever made that noise to pass.

Five minutes later a rain-slickened and rather annoyed looking dog sized rodent comes stumbling out of the underbrush.

Clint sighs. "A fucking capybara. That's great. I can die happy now."

He's about to stand up, but turns first to Natasha. Whatever he was going to say slips right out of his head at the sight of her, close to him and dripping from the rain.

Her shirt is clinging to her, the moisture turning the green fabric not exactly transparent, but surely the next best thing. He can see every part of her torso, the outline of her breasts, and while he should be able to ignore it and refocus, he's feeling particularly sex-starved at the moment and he just doesn't want to anything but stare at her, open mouthed and more than a little dazed. Sure, it's puerile, but she's moving closer and he recognizes that particular twinkle in her eye.

She leans right in and kisses him without preamble, her tongue sliding over his lips before gaining entrance to his mouth, and he's instantly hard from that simple contact. It's been far too long since they've been able to take the time for this, and even now, in the back of his head, he knows they should be focusing on other things, heading back to camp and checking the monitor, but he's had a lousy damn week and this is the first good thing that's happened since they got here.

So he goes with it.

He walks her backward into the tree, scanning it quickly for signs of unexpected wildlife. She grunts a little at the impact, meeting his eyes with hunger as he stands back to look at her.

He wants to tell her a thousand things, that she's beautiful, that he's glad she's here with him, but none of those are suitable to the moment, so he swallows the sentiments, keeps them inside of him where they belong. Maybe when they get out of here, he'll try to do something special for her, buy her a new gun or something, maybe then he can tell her all the crap that's been running through his head as he sits up in that damn tree. Right now, though, there are other, more important matters to attend to.

Like Natasha.

He closes the gap between them, sucking lightly below her jawline and running a swift hand down her body while he presses into her. Her palms ghosting across his face, she moans his name breathlessly into the air, and for a moment he loses some of his focus.

She tries to use her own hands to explore him as they move together against the tree, but he needs to be in control of this right now, needs her to let him take over, so he grabs both her wrists in one palm, then presses them over her head.

Before moving forward, he looks at her, making sure she understands, making sure she's with him.

"This ok?"

She bites her lip, nodding. "Yeah." Her body agrees too, and she offers no resistance when he undoes her belt buckle, pulls off one fingerless glove with his teeth, and slips his hand inside her pants.

She's slick already, slippery even, and he can't stifle the rough noise that escapes his throat at that discovery.

The rain chooses that moment to start beating down harder, but he finds he really doesn't care when he's got his fingers pumping inside of a wet and horny Natasha. She's sweltering hot as she bucks her hips again his palm, keening his name as she starts to shudder.

Her neck and face flush and her erect nipples are poking through her shirt even as her chest heaves, and he knows she's so very, very close, but before she can come, he pulls his hand out and away from her, leaving her whimpering at the sudden loss of sensation.

"Clint . . .?" There's reproach in her voice.

He doesn't reply verbally, just shoves her pants down past her hips. He releases her wrists and flips her around. They only have a limited amount of time to spare here, and he's been ready for her for what seems like days. He works on the fastenings to his own pants, pulling his throbbing cock out, and then he's inside of her, thrusting roughly, colliding with her over and over again.

He reaches around to her face then and she sucks his first two fingers into her mouth, giving him all the care and attention he's come to expect from her. He draws his hand away from her mouth, moving on to other parts of her. He comes to rest at the base of her neck, where he jerks her shirt off one shoulder and presses an open-mouthed kiss to her rain-dampened flesh.

"Come on, Clint. I know you can fuck me harder than this," she encourages, restless against him, and he pounds into her even as he bites down on her shoulder. He's careful not to break her skin, open wounds are dangerous out here, but he stops just at the verge, forcing her to hover in the space between pain and pleasure.

It must have scratched some kind of an itch because she cries out, "Yes, like that! Fuck me just like that, baby!"

And it's the first time he's ever heard a genuine endearment cross her lips and something inside of him snaps, and he pounds into her with everything he's got. She's started to sob as he fucks her and the entire Colombian army could be standing around them right now and he wouldn't even notice because she feels so completely fucking fantastic.

He picks his hand up from where it had been pressed bruisingly hard into her hip, and he threads it through her hair. He tugs her head back then, straightening her up somewhat and bringing her ear in line with his mouth.

"Say it again." His voice has never sounded so full of threat and promise, even to his own ears, and he can feel Natasha clench around him in response.

"Fuck me just like that!" She cries gamely, seemingly happy to along with whatever he wants. It's a rare occasion that he gets to take the upper hand with this woman, but when he does have it, she completely lets herself go, abandoning herself to him.

"The other part." He wants, no, he needs to hear her say it again.

"Fuck me harder, _baby._" The way she emphasizes the word pushes him closer to the edge, and his balls tighten up against his body. It won't be long now, he can tell, for either of them, but he wants her to cross over the brink first, wants to make sure that her hunger is slaked before he takes care of himself.

Going off of her earlier response, he starts sucking and nipping on her bared neck, leaving a new red ring on her skin, a twin to the first. His hand makes its way of its own accord down to her clit, and it takes the barest pressure there to set her off. Her spine curves improbably as she comes, contracting around him harder than he's ever felt and it's not enough and too much all at once and he can't stand it but he needs more and fuck yes, then he's there and he's forgotten that it's pouring down rain and he's in the goddamned jungle and he hasn't slept in a real bed in weeks and everything in his possession is kind of soggy and it's really fucking amazing.

They quickly dress afterward, buttoning back up and helping each other straighten their clothes. He starts to head back to the camp, but he's stopped by Natasha's hand tugging on his.

"Hrm?" He turns to look at her, and she's grinning, all messy and beautiful as she slides up to him and kisses him one more time.

"For the road," she says, pulling away. "In case the rodents of unusual size eat you."

He laughs, happy that she remembers the movie they half watched on a lazy Sunday afternoon , years ago.

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around."

He has so much more to say than just that, but it's serious and today just isn't the right day for it. Today is a day for heading back to camp, trying to dry out a little, and watching a video monitor in shifts. So he sets off after her, happy to let Natasha lead the way.

Man, Clint loves the fucking jungle.

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_Thanks for reading! If you have a moment to spare, I would love to hear what you think!_


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